


you sound like soul

by backdoor (symmetrophobic)



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26107117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetrophobic/pseuds/backdoor
Summary: he’s already three steps onto the grass when he turns back, but jisung is still teetering at the edge, like he’s afraid to dirty something sacred. “i don’t know,” he says, a little reluctantly.“don’t make me stand on this mud longer than I have to,” minho warns.alternatively,stray kids stop by kl on tour, and minho spends one morning as a tourist in jisung’s past.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 21
Kudos: 100





	you sound like soul

**Author's Note:**

> watch me try to speak unlock: kl into existence like there isn't a fucking global pandemic ongoing
> 
> title taken from "seoul" by rm

It’s not that Minho doesn’t believe Jisung means it when he says he wants to bring him on an exclusive, once in a lifetime Han Jisung Special! tour of KL on the last day they’re here.

It’s just that they’d all stayed up the night after the concert, having celebratory drinks and midnight barbeque with the rest of the staff, and Minho believes in Jisung’s ability to sleep till 3pm a little more. So he nods along to Jisung’s excited babble about bak kut teh during pre-concert makeup, and gets stabbed in the eye by a stick of mascara in return.

Now, he lifts his head groggily off the pillow, barely able to see the silhouette of Jisung in the darkness of his room.

Quietly, partly not to wake Hyunjin but mostly because the shitty hotel air-conditioning has dried his throat up, he croaks: “What?”

Jisung waves a blinding watch display in his face. “It’s 9am hyung! Let’s go!”

“Go where?”

“The tour, remember?”

Minho sighs, letting his head thump back on the pillow. “Later.”

“No, hyung, we have to eat breakfast!” Jisung whines. “I’ve got everything planned, let’s _go_.”

This gives Minho some pause.

It actually gives him a lot of pause, because despite knowing Jisung for only a few years, he’s pretty sure the younger man has never planned anything in his life.

Some people wing exams, or job interviews – Jisung winged his entire life. And he didn’t just get away with it, he _thrived_ , unlike Minho, who still gets ass-clenching anxiety every time part of a TV interview deviates one question away from the pre-show script.

This temporarily lowered defence has Jisung swooping in, fluttering his lashes like he doesn’t know all of Minho’s pain points. “I’ll treat breakfast, hyung~”

The dancer sighs again, sitting up and feeling himself shedding years of life as the comforter slides off. “This better be worth it.”

“Oh, don’t worry hyung, it’s going to be _great_ ,” Jisung beams, so brightly that Minho bites back his retort and slinks to the bathroom.

*

Minho has some healthy, preconceived notions about _breakfast_ – that means rice and side dishes, or coffee and a sandwich, or those exotic continental buffets at hotels that he’s slowly starting to get used to.

Now, he stares as the waitress sets down a steaming, bubbling bowl of – of some sort of herbal smelling stew, in front of him and Jisung. The younger boy beams behind his black half mask, warbling out something foreign, and she scuttles away.

In all honesty, he would’ve preferred somewhere quieter, but there’s something charming about being shoved into the corner of a 50-year-old shophouse front bursting with people, barely noticed in the sea of movement.

“What language was that?” Minho says, still trying to get his bearings. “Wasn’t it English?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jisung says, surfacing from his Very Serious activity of taking B612 photos of the food. “My Chinese is pretty bad.”

“She wasn’t Malay?”

Jisung looks at the dish, before looking back at Minho. “Hyung, this is pork.”

Getting progressively more confused, Minho presses on. “But we’re in Malaysia.”

“Oh! There are Malaysian Chinese everywhere, hyung. They speak Malay and Chinese, but my Chinese is pretty bad and they can kind of speak English.”

“Okay,” says Minho, the Korean who speaks Korean.

“Anyway! _Hyung_ , this is the mother of all breakfast foods. My family used to come here for breakfast on Sundays all the time,” Jisung claps gleefully, starting to poke at the bubbling stew with his chopsticks. “They put _everything_ in – there’s beancurd skin, and mushrooms, and _whole garlics_ , and-…”

“And this is…what, again?”

Jisung kicks him. “Hyung, this is bak kut teh! You never listen to me.”

Minho gives the bowls on the table a measured look – a small plastic bowl of fried dough-looking slices, some sort of _jokbal_ -looking thing sitting in an evil black sauce, an equally evil black chili sauce, and then back at Jisung.

Jisung, and his hopeful heart-shaped smile, bunny teeth biting tentatively at the plastic chopsticks. Minho lets out a weary chuckle, picking up a piece of meat from the stew, a whole pork rib. “I’m listening.”

The younger man brightens, before starting to stuff rice and meat in his mouth, giving a running commentary on all the food as he eats it.

And Minho watches the little spark in him flicker, like the other boy’s eight again, sitting at the table with everyone he’d ever needed in his life.

*

Jisung never really talks about himself unless he has to make them laugh.

His stories are honest and to the point, too, not rambly like Changbin or polite like Hyunjin, or with that touch of unintentional fatherly condescension from Chan.

So Minho has to mine the meaning from all these little bites, walk towards the light of Jisung’s soul in the centre of the maze of his words. Every so often he’ll hit a dead end, go back to square one, like the video games he always sees Felix playing.

He feels like Tom Cruise in Edge of Tomorrow. Strangely, there isn’t much of a rush to finally get it, though, to _get Jisung_ – hearing stories from the rest of the guys would make one think that the most of it should happen in a matter of days.

But it doesn’t, here. And Minho’s just never felt like it should.

The roads here are quieter than they’d been in the city centre, before they’d taken that taxi, and Minho walks along the asphalt, biting the straw of his iced Americano.

“After breakfast, we’d go to this park over here,” Jisung points, holding onto his own drink. The tropical humidity clings to them, and Minho’s forced to shed his denim jacket, holding it loosely as they walk. “My mom would force me to play with the kids here. In the end my hyung made friends with this international clique – Ampang has a _ton_ of Koreans, by the way. I just tagged along.”

“ _International clique_.”

“You know what I mean,” they’re standing at the edge of the park now, where the grass meets the carpark. There aren’t as many kids as Minho’d expected, but then he remembers it’s a weekday. “We had nothing in common except that we weren’t from around here. They were okay, I guess.”

Minho thinks back to his childhood, and vaguely remembers that group. There was always one on the playground, no matter which country you were in. Cultures divided people on many things, but a common fear of being different was universal, apparently.

He doesn’t remember much about those kids, except they wore nicer clothes than him, and he used to pilfer snacks off them because they had cool foreign sweets you couldn’t get at the stationery shops around his area. He was sad when they moved back.

It’s kind of funny, to think of Jisung as one of those kids. But even back in Korea, back in JYP, there was something about him that made you set him aside from the rest of the true blue Seoul boys at the back of your mind. Minho used to put it down to his years growing up in Malaysia, but he’s not so sure now, anymore.

“I used to bully those kids,” he comments instead. Jisung scoffs but doesn’t say anything.

There are ants crawling on the kerb, and Minho’s hit his daily quota of looking at nature that isn’t cats. He shuffles a little on the spot, glancing back the way they came, but his gaze catches on Jisung’s face on the backswing.

He’d learnt, one of those useless fun facts you pick up as a six-year-old boy, that the moon didn’t shine on its own. Instead it sort of just hung out around the earth and as it did, the light of the sun would fall on its face. It got by quite fine on its own, thank you, but when the stars aligned (literally), it would have no choice but to glow.

Jisung turns to look at him, and Minho barely registers the corners of his own lips turning up into a small smile.

“Wanna go in?”

He’s already three steps onto the grass when he turns back, but Jisung is still teetering at the edge, like he’s afraid to dirty something sacred. “I don’t know,” he says, a little reluctantly.

“Don’t make me stand on this mud longer than I have to,” Minho warns.

It takes a second or two. Then Jisung scurries in after Minho, sneakers rustling through the dry grass.

Some ways away, a bunch of kids too young for school are obliviously enjoying their last months of freedom. A pregnant mother is walking with a toddler.

The morning goes to sleep, as Jisung and Minho walk along a pavement that leads to nowhere, in as much silence as the birds overhead will allow.

*

For lunch, Minho expects another hole-in-the-wall kind of place with a great stew he’ll never get to eat again when he’s back in Korea, but they’re standing at the taxi drop-off of a mall instead.

“Nothing’s changed,” Jisung sighs, sounding sentimental.

“That kinda sucks,” Minho squints, thinking of the economy. Jisung side-eyes him, but he knows what Minho means.

Minho knows that with a startling certainty. It’s one of those things he knows he should question, one of those things that’s going to trip him up and break him down one day in the future. But for now, he’ll enjoy it.

They head in, and Jisung points out all the shops that are new – Minho never knew what they were in the first place, so he just nods along and listens as the younger boy talks.

The shops are never just _shops_. In Jisung’s mind, they’re all stories. One was a piano shop where Jisung’s mom had forcefully signed him up for music lessons, and the same shop where his father bought him his first guitar, so Jisung used to skip keyboard practice to play with him. Another used to be a shaved ice place that his mom would bring him and his brother to after exams – they put coconut milk and tadpole jellies in, and the ice was coarser than the kind they use for _bingsu_ , so there was a nice _cronch_.

Minho doesn’t really know what that means, but Jisung makes it sound uncomfortable, yet also oddly satisfying.

Their lunch place is so inconspicuous that Minho doesn’t even realise that Jisung’s stopped walking. He turns back, looking at the sparkle in Jisung’s eyes. “It’s still here!”

Minho squints up at the name of the fast food joint they’re at. _Fuck English_ , he thinks, struggling through the block white letters on red. “All the food in Malaysia, and you want to eat Mcdonalds?”

“This isn’t a _Mcdonalds_ , hyung,” Jisung makes it sound sacrilegious. “This is Marrybrown.”

He stops there. No more stories. It’s like a little glowing hint in a video game. And Minho has made one too many video game references for today. This is Felix’s fault.

“Okay,” he sighs, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, nudging Jisung with his elbow. “Let’s eat some burgers.”

*

He doesn’t even get a burger in the end, instead settling on this fried chicken meal thing that’s going to make his face twice its size tomorrow. He expects Jisung to recommend something good, some signature dish from this place that’s going to knock Mom’s Touch out of the park (now _that’s_ sacrilegious), but the younger man gets the cheapest thing on the menu, a chicken burger meal.

Minho watches, head resting on his hand, as Jisung continues to take photos like this morning. He gets the feeling there’s something more to this than he’s ready to deal with on five hours of sleep.

He’s kind of disappointed when he takes his first bite, too – maybe it’s just unrealistic expectations (thanks for nothing, _Jollibee_ ) but the food is really just… _okay_. It’s not bad, just very normal fast food at a lower-than-usual price point.

Jisung doesn’t seem to care, though – he’s busy unwrapping his burger, reverently folding the wrapper back.

Maybe it’s the group of schoolgirls a couple of tables away starting to stare in their direction, or the weird way Jisung’s been acting all morning, that has Minho a little on edge. “Is there a reason why we’re here?”

He hopes he sounds honest, and not like an asshole. He keeps careful track of the number of fucks he gives from day to day, and goodness knows they’re mostly spent on Jisung, even though the younger boy probably doesn’t need them.

Minho wasn’t around then, but he’s been with them long enough to assume that’s the reason why Hyunjin and Jisung didn’t get along that well when they first met – because Hyunjin was spring, full of honey, and Jisung was summer, full of fire.

Jisung was bad with sweetness, and Hyunjin didn’t like the heat. It’d been fun, if not a little annoying, to watch them grow past that, under the careful eye of Chan and the sticky teenage camaraderie of Felix, Seungmin and Jeongin.

“I used to come here,” Jisung says, dipping a fry in some radioactive-looking ketchup. “My mom would bring my brother and I sometimes.”

“Was it nice?”

“I guess. You know kids and fast food.”

Minho tries not to look at the schoolgirls, still bobbling anxiously at their table. They’ve seen him, and they’re trying to figure out who Jisung is from the back.

“Does it still taste the same?”

Jisung chews meditatively on his burger. His face is unreadable for a moment, a strange expression for Minho to see.

Quietly, the younger man replies: “I don’t remember.”

A waiter slouches past to clean a table, and the conversation topic changes, flung far away from Ampang.

Jisung talks about the tour, about their Southeast Asia leg and their last stop in Singapore, and how their manager’s secretly planning to force feed them durians for a SKZ-Talker episode there since he couldn’t do it here.

And Minho lets him. He lets the words spin their magic around his head, knowing vaguely that somewhere in that nestles Jisung’s heart, glowing a dull gold.

“And he just scolded me like that! I didn’t even say anything!” Jisung complains. His burger is finished, now, empty tray scattered with crumpled wrappers. “Hyunjin just needs to be less sensitive.”

“ _You_ need to be more sensitive,” Minho wipes his fingers on a paper towel. The scene around them has changed, the place filling up with families, and the schoolgirls are gone. He hadn’t even noticed.

Jisung pouts. There’s a smudge of sauce on the corner of his lips. If they were back at the breakfast place, just another face in the crowd, Minho would’ve wiped it away for him. The sight of it bothers him. “You’re so cold, hyung.”

The dancer rolls his eyes. “Let’s go. We’ve been here too long, anyway.”

They take their trays, but before they can stand, Minho grabs a clean serviette and dabs at Jisung’s lips, quick as lightning, before tossing it onto the tray. “And clean up after yourself. You’re always driving me crazy.”

If Jisung is summer, then Minho is winter, with a heart and a voice full of ice, alone but never lonely.

The JYPE mental health counsellor assigned to him asked if it was how he coped during one of their earlier monthly sessions, and Minho said no, because it wasn’t – it was how he was. Just because it got him through the bitchiness and backstabbing of his old dance crews, and the sudden absence of Woojin, didn’t mean it was a crutch.

But then there was Jisung, Jisung with his honest, bubbling warmth and his heart bleeding out on his sleeve, and all of a sudden the ice palace in the cavern of Minho’s chest was occupied. Every day, now, he melted a little more.

Soon, he would be unrecognisable. 

Jisung flutters his lashes, then. “I drive you crazy, hyung?”

Minho flicks a dirty napkin at him. Jisung laughs loud enough that they have to leave quickly after that, whispering an argument at each other, hands brushing as they huddle close through the lunchtime crowd.

*

As a joke, they end up at a bootleg Kpop merchandise shop on the top floor, riffling through tacky keychains and fake photocards until they can find something of theirs.

It turns out to be a group photocard, back from their Miroh era – Minho covers Woojin with his thumb, and Jisung smacks his shoulder.

Minho sucks at his drink, a brown sugar bubble tea thing that’s nicer and less overpriced than the ones they have in Seoul, as he thumbs through playing cards and keychains, when Jisung sighs, looking at his phone.

“Chan called me. Did he call you?”

The dancer takes out his phone. “No.” _He probably thought it was easier to scold Jisung than me_.

“He’s probably going to get mad at us for staying out this long,” Jisung presses the green button, and heads out of the store. “Be right back.”

Minho bites at the tip of his straw, eyes following the silhouette of Jisung through the frosted glass as he walks out, phone raised to his ear.

Here, alone in a store, far away from everyone else, he reminds himself that it’s okay to stare.

The free Spotify playlist through the speakers overhead finally gets through its ad, and Minho recognises the piano comp that tinkles through the store immediately.

He smiles, wondering when he’ll ever get to feel like this again, like this is life as it should be, with Day6’s _Beautiful Feeling_ playing in the background.

Looking up at the wall of blatantly plagiarised merchandise, fingers itching for something to _happen_ , he decides to make an impulse buy.

*

Jisung’s looking a little deflated by the time Minho walks out of the store to find him, on his phone. “Manager wants us to go back now. I think some fans saw us during lunch and word got around.”

“Hm,” Minho says, glancing around. “Already?”

The younger man looks at him. His eyes have this look in them, entire face poised and ready for a smile. Like a happiness forecast. “Do we have a choice?”

Minho shrugs easily. “It might take a while to get back. Traffic, you know?”

Jisung laughs, and they start heading for the elevator. “Okay one last detour. It’ll be really fast, hyung, I promise. Then we’ll buy the rest of them coffee.”

“You mean _you’ll_ buy the rest of them coffee.”

“Ah, _hyung_.”

*

This cab ride is shorter, and Jisung leans forward in his seat, eyes on the road, occasionally relaying instructions to the driver that Minho doesn’t understand.

The younger man leaves his Kakaotalk open, and despite himself, the dancer catches Jisung’s conversation with his mother. He’s sent her the pictures he took this morning, along with texts too small to see. She sends back lots of smiling emojis, the way mothers do.

“Where are we going now?”

“It’s just a fast one. Nothing much, I just wanted to see what it looks like now,” Jisung babbles.

Maybe it’s his old school, or another food place. Either way, Minho doesn’t ask anymore, just sits back and watches the world pass by outside the window.

Ampang is quiet in a way that Seoul isn’t – more brick than glass, so your reflection isn’t staring back at you wherever you walk. It feels real in the same way it feels strange, a little like Jisung.

Maybe that’s the reason for the whispers that used to float around the younger boy, down the JYPE practice room hallways before they debuted.

He was real in a way that made people uncomfortable. Made them feel like that mask on their face wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t the best at choosing the right time to talk but when he spoke, he was never afraid.

“It should be just around this corner,” Jisung says, face pressed against the window. “I remember it was just across the road from the market.”

The driver says something, then, pointing out the front, and Jisung shakes his head. Minho picks up fragments here and there of their conversation, enough to piece together something.

 _This is the place_. _But it’s not_.

Jisung speaks in a smattering of different languages. _Big, red roof. Six levels_. He’s describing a building. They’ve circulated this area a couple of times, now – Minho recognises the old, abandoned-looking construction site in between two complexes.

Finally, Jisung falls silent.

He thanks the driver. Then says the name of their hotel.

“It’s not here?”

“It used to be there,” he doesn’t point, but Minho knows he’s talking about the old construction site. “My apartment.”

It takes a while, till the taxi rumbles onto the highway. They leave the residential blocks far behind, heading back to the city centre of Kuala Lumpur. Soon they’ll be back with the rest, removed from this little bubble of time.

Then they’ll be leaving for good, going to Singapore, then back to Seoul.

Jisung’s just staring out of the window. Then, suddenly, he hisses, grabbing his phone.

“What?”

“ _Fuck_ , I forgot to take a picture of the place,” Jisung whines, slumping against the seat. “My mom would’ve wanted to see it.”

There’s silence for a while more, as the driver glances back warily.

“Whatever, it’s fine,” the younger man sighs, more to himself than anything. “I’ll just tell her they tore it down.”

Minho doesn’t really know what to say, so he reaches out and nudges Jisung’s hand. “She’ll be happy with the fast food photos.”

Jisung lets out a small laugh. His shoulders hunch in when he looks down, so he looks even smaller than he usually does.

“Honestly,” he mumbles, after a while. “I hated Marrybrown.”

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Minho wishes it weren’t as awkward as it sounded.

“My dad’s business stuff wasn’t in a good place for a while when we were here,” the younger boy continues eventually, detached. “We weren’t really _poor_ , just careful, I guess. I always wanted Mcdonalds on weekends, and my mom would say, no, why can’t you just eat Marrybrown?” he frowns. “I probably couldn’t even taste the difference as a kid. I just wanted it because all the kids at school were eating it.”

Minho thinks back to the park, this morning, then to the shopping complex – how Jisung talked about them with that smile on his face, like they were old friends he didn’t speak to anymore.

“When I was stuck here as a kid, every day I just wanted to go back to Incheon. And then when I finally got back…it wasn’t the same,” Jisung mumbles. “I didn’t know how to put it, until I met Chan, and he said…he said it was like part of him was in Sydney, and part of him in Seoul. And maybe we’ll just spend the rest of our lives never really knowing where we belong,” Jisung glances out the window. Then he laughs, embarrassed. “You probably don’t get what I’m talking about.”

Minho shakes his head. South Korea is a gated world with gilded words, and he’s never had to really think about it. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jisung shrugs, and looks away.

Rain is threatening to pour over KL, and clouds are crowding up the sky, choking out rays of the sun. Their highway is going over a river, so for a moment, all Minho can see is Jisung staring out over the water, haloed in watery grey.

The taxi goes over a pothole, and Minho’s hand nudges Jisung’s again. In that moment, it seems the natural thing to do would be to take his hand and hold it.

So Minho does.

Realisation seems to come in baby steps for Jisung. First his fingers tighten around Minho’s, relaxed and familiar, then tension works into his shoulders, like he realises what’s going on.

Then he turns around, gaze darting downwards to their hands, then back up to Minho’s eyes, curious and trepid and unashamedly hopeful.

Sensing the impending weight of expectations, Minho reaches into his pocket with his other hand, quickly pulling out the keychain from earlier. “Got this for you.”

Jisung throws him a confused smile, reaching to take the keychain. He hasn’t let go of Minho’s hand.

Then he sees the photo on the keychain. And he laughs, so loud the driver looks into the rearview mirror.

“Yah, hyung!” the younger man whines, grabbing the keychain, still laughing, and too late, Minho realises he’s smiling, his own chuckles bubbling out of his chest, spring water out of a frozen geyser. “They _had_ this at the shop?”

“I mean, it was everyone’s favourite photocard of you,” the dancer leans back against the seat, reaches up with his free hand to ruffle Jisung’s hair. “Maybe you should go back to that look. Eight years old, glasses and bucket hair, and all.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. He tucks the keychain into his pocket, though. “I know you just bully me because you care, hyung.”

The dancer pulls a face, leaning back against the comfortable leather seat to look out the window. “I bully you because it’s fun.”

“But you do care about me,” the younger man leans over, blinking up at him, a warm little quirk to his lips. “Right hyung?”

And again, bright affection coursing hot through his veins and to his lips, Minho turns away so Jisung can’t see him smile. “Whatever.”

*

Chan frowns when they hurry back down their hotel corridor. His frown deepens when he sees their hands, still intertwined.

“Sorry hyung!” Jisung jumps on him, dragging a non-consenting Minho with him. “We’ll never be late again!”

“Go and pack,” he takes pains to nod in two separate directions. The look in his eyes says, to Minho, _you’re older. You should know better_.

“Sorry,” Minho says. His sorry is nuanced to mean a lot of things. Chan must sense this, because he lets them go. He’s got other things to worry about.

Minho and Jisung don’t talk about it until they’re on the plane later – they’re good at that, not talking (but still knowing, anyway). There’s a slidable privacy panel between the business class seats that Felix and Jisung open and shut until they get politely shushed by a flight attendant, after which Jisung opens the panel between his and Minho’s seats, resting his head on an open palm.

“So,” he drawls. “You come around here often, or…?”

Minho reaches over the shut the panel. Jisung laughs, wriggling his head through so it can’t close. “Thanks for coming with me today, hyung.”

“It’s okay,” Minho says, without missing a beat. “You needed this.”

The younger man looks at him, and for a second, his lips flutter, a crease running through his brow, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to. It’s kind of funny because his head is still halfway through the panel.

Minho’s used to seeing that expression on the people around him now, usually because he’s said something a little too honest and they’re stuck trying to configure a way to respond.

Quietly, anxiously, he hopes this wasn’t too honest for Jisung.

Then, Jisung smiles a little. Like magic, the sky opens up behind them through the window of the plane, sunlight pouring in and dancing across the carpet like sparks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- apologies to all malaysian stays who had to witness this :') my best was tried  
> \- i've always been super taken by jisung's stories of malaysia! and how he seems to remember the place so fondly all the time, esp during his older interviews.  
> \- semi inspired by stories of my friends who grew up in different places around the world and came home  
> \- mostly inspired by that minsung 2kr ep where jisung says he wants minho to eat bak kut teh, and everything that transpires after that  
> \- also, [photocard](https://cf.shopee.co.id/file/d63dc6ae0f24d6cdca9afa70b1892c09).  
> \- also, if you're thinking right now that i was just using this as an excuse to write 100w of bak kut teh food porn, i'll have you know that you're 200% correct. what_about_it_ariana_grande.gif.
> 
> thank you for reading ;u; comments and kudos will be loved and treasured!!
> 
> let's be friends! ;u;    
>  personal twt: @goldengyeom    
>  writing twt: @symmetrophobic 


End file.
